Mr. John Allen rushed down to the "Sweet Home," as soon as ever it came
in. He hadn't anybody on board to care very particularly about, but how
he did rub his hands together as he went, letting the snow gather fast
on his long beard, as he thought of the thirty or forty pairs of feet
that _must_ have shoes!

Crip, you know, was to be eleven the next day, and his mother, in the
big red house next door to the little shop, had made him a cake for the
day, and, beside, plum-pudding was to be for dinner.

Before Crip's father had gone down to the dock he had said to Crip:
"Now, you must stay right here in the shop and not go near the dock,
until I come back;" and Crip had said "Yes, sir," although every bit of
his throbbing boy body wanted to take itself off to the "Sweet Home."

The snow kept on falling, and it began to grow dark in the little shop.
Crip had just lighted a candle, when the shop door opened, and a boy,
not much bigger than Crip himself, came in and shut the door behind
him.

Crip jumped up from the bench and said:

"What----?"

"You don't know me, Crip Allen," said the boy.

"Who be you?" questioned Crip.

"Don't wonder!" said the other, "for we've all come right out of the